The mercenaries start trouble.

One of the mercenaries stood up suddenly and swaggered up to the bard. Shairi groaned to herself. She’d grown up in a tavern, and knew trouble when she saw it. Back home, her mother would have defused a situation like this, catching the troublemaker’s eye with her breasts wantonly displayed in a tight, low top, and luring him upstairs with an equally low price.

But no one here seemed willing to defuse things.

“You sing?” he asked.

“Yes, very well,” the bard replied.

“Yeah,” the man said with a cruel smile, “I bet you’ll sing out real sweet when I stick my cock in you.” His companion laughed.

“Get lost,” she snapped. Shairi winced. It was completely the wrong tone. From her accent and expensive clothes, it looked like the girl was rich. And from her behaviour, it seemed she’d never been out without guards. If she’d seemed appropriately scared, they might have left her alone. But her contemptuous tone would just make them angry.

“That’s it, bitch!” the man drew a dagger, and the bard’s eyes widened in fear at last. “Bard, are you? You’re going to put on a little show for us!” He pulled her to her feet, pushing her into the centre of the floor.

“Dance, whore!” he ordered, brandishing his knife.

The bard began to tentatively go through the steps of a courtly dance. Shairi sighed.

“No, not like that!” the mercenary snapped. “Move your hips! And take your clothes off!”